


Home

by Impressioniste



Category: Dragon Age II
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-01
Updated: 2014-02-01
Packaged: 2018-01-10 18:25:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 811
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1163026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Impressioniste/pseuds/Impressioniste
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Short, playful banter between Anders and Hawke as they talk about 'home'.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Home

“What’s on your mind?”

The sound of Hawke’s warm tenor close to his ear brought Anders back around from whatever faraway plane of existence he’d been mentally vacationing on as he stared intently in the direction of the blazing fire burning a dozen feet away.

Anders quickly cleared his throat. He smiled, a tiny, wry, half-twisted little thing, then leaned over and pressed his cheek against the firm, sturdy warmth of Hawke’s shoulder. Hawke’s hand came to rest near the base of Anders’ neck as he huddled close, callused fingertips brushing against a few fine hairs there that tickled and prickled at his touch.

“Nothing…” he replied evasively, pausing for a moment to simply close his eyes and breathe and revel in Hawke’s warmth. “Nothing… and everything,” he amended a moment later, a little more honestly. His smile mellowed as he slowly opened his eyes, his voice softening along with it. “Take your pick.”

Hawke laughed, slow and deep in his chest. “That was almost _poetically_ vague.”

“Maybe I’m in the wrong line of work,” Anders smiled gently, shifting and turning his head so that Hawke’s hand rested comfortingly against the line of his jaw, with his large, rough thumb and the tips of his fingers tracing a line back and forth against Anders’ stubble. “Should I trade my robes in for a lute and become a poet?”

“I wouldn’t say that,” Hawke mused, remembering the last time Anders had tried to ‘play’ a lute. He paused as the memory passed, then tightened his hold on Anders ever so slightly as he continued, his voice low and earnest. “I think you’re right where you need to be.”

Anders felt color rising in his cheeks, but he steeled his jaw and blamed it on the fire. “I knew there was a soft heart under all that scruff,” he replied, sliding his hand down the length of Hawke’s thigh and across his lap to twine their fingers together against his knee. “I once heard someone say that Fereldans have the biggest hearts in all of Thedas.”

“It’s true, but it’s necessary for survival. We have to hug each other all winter long just to keep from freezing to death, you know.”

Anders snorted at Hawke’s tongue-in-cheek response. “Actually, no. I’m not Fereldan, remember?” His fingers clutched Hawke’s a little tighter, instinctively.

“Right, right,” Hawke grimaced, feeling guilty that he’d nearly forgotten. “ **Ander** fels.”

“… Sort of,” Anders sighed, straightening up beside Hawke on the sofa. Hawke’s hand fell away from his neck and stopped to rest near the small of his back. “My family is _from_ the Anderfels, but it’s hardly my _home_.” He stopped and frowned, pushing unpleasant, unwanted memories away from the forefront of his mind, back into the shadows where they belonged. “The Circle is the closest thing I’ve had to a home or family since I was twelve. Though it’s not **really** a home if you’re dragged there in chains, I suppose.” He shrugged and tried to be flip, but it still hurt to think about, even now.

Hawke was silent—he didn’t know how to respond to that. Even though he’d spent a good part of his life moving around or running from templars, he always had a family, and wherever his family was, was home. ‘Home’ wasn’t a single, static place, it was a feeling, an idea that he held close and treasured. He’d lost a lot of that since coming to Kirkwall, and for a while the Estate simply felt like a ‘house’ or a ‘shelter’ despite its splendor, but ever since Anders had come to live with him, it had begun to feel like a ‘home’ again.

Pressing his palm to the curve of Anders’ back, Hawke leaned in and kissed him, just a soft brush of lips against the side of his mouth. Anders was still and quiet as Hawke pulled away, but his heart beat quick and hard in his throat.

“My heart might be Fereldan, but my home is here, with you,” Hawke paused, clearing his throat to steady his voice, which seemed about to crack, “which makes it _your_ home, too.”

Anders sat silently dumbstruck, groping for the words to respond with something even half as meaningful, but before he could answer, his face was flush up against Hawke’s broad chest, breathing in the warm, familiar scent of smoke and salt and musk and linen that radiated from him like an aura of sensual comfort, and he wasn’t sure who had hugged whom first, but it didn’t really matter in the slightest.

He was finally somewhere he felt like he belonged—not in the Free Marches, or in Kirkwall, or at the Estate—but in Hawke’s house, in his den and on his sofa, in his arms and in his life and in his heart.

That was where Anders felt at home.


End file.
